Spirits Collide, page 3
part #2 of Evil Awakened Series
Working up enough courage to speak, Pamoon whispered, “What’s going on here?”
No answer.
Louder, this time, she said, “Evil is not allowed to flourish in this sacred place.”
Again, there was silence.
“Kise, can you hear me? Are you here?”
Nothing. The Creator did not reply.
About to give up, Pamoon heard a mournful cry. “Hurry, Kiche. Run.”
The anguish of Ayas’ voice shocked her from her trance. Her eyes snapped open, her muscles taunt. Instinct took control of her mind and body as she shot up off the floor of the lodge and ran for the door before Powaw could stop her. Her head spun as soon as she stepped outside. The fresh, cold air of a Florida January seemed to have weight and substance, slamming her to the ground. She felt the incapacitating pain of a brain freeze—as if she’d eaten ice cream too fast—but it wasn’t just in her head, it was also in her gut and muscles. The sudden cramp surged, causing her to empty her stomach and dry heave until the sensation lessened.
Lying on the cold ground, curled in a fetal position, she heard Powaw before she saw him. “Sometimes experience is the best teacher. Next time, you will stay put until the ceremony is over.”
6
Watchers
The next morning started like any other. Pamoon and Scout ran as usual, but as they passed as rock formation, the flame-shaped birthmarks on her hand and neck tingled. She slowed down, her senses keen to anything out of the ordinary, and more importantly, to see if Scout reacted differently to the surrounding area. She wiped the sweat from her palm onto her jeans and gripped her staff tighter, readying to compress the lever under her pinkie to snap it to a full length of five feet. Except for the irritation on her skin, neither she nor Scout seemed to sense anything wrong, and once again, picked up their pace.
Under the rock formation where Pamoon had slowed her run, Mantema and Shikoba hid in the shadows, afraid to even take a breath as the Sky Spirt Goddess stopped just a few feet away. As soon as they heard the footsteps once again quicken, the Choctaw Little People breathed easier. Once their keen sense of smell no longer picked up the perfume of the wolf, they moved out from under the rocks, feeling at ease to speak freely.
“The Godeth thure ith beautiful,” Shikoba, the smaller of the two lisped.
“Her senses are strong, but not yet strong enough to discover our presence,” Mantema said, ignoring his brother’s comment.
“I with we could make ourthelves known to her.”
Mantema just shook his head. “We observe and stay hidden until she finds us or until Kwanokasha arrives.”
“Did The Watcher thay when he would be here?”
“No. Kwanokasha doesn’t make schedules; he just makes decisions.”
“I hope she patheth hith teths.”
“If she is the one the wind whispers of, she will pass his tests.”
7
The Valley’s First Visitors
Today began like the previous few since Ayas had found the valley; he toiled along the Southeast border of the valley, the one which meshed with the Misty Woods. He was high in a pine, chopping and cutting as the sun began to dip. Every once in a while, he swore he heard voices coming from the fog. He knew better than to dismiss them as figments of his imagination, and found it harder to ignore them with each passing day. Through his constant toil, his thoughts of Pamoon kept him from stopping to rest. Her mortality kept him fearful. The anguish he heard coming from the Tree People, the short spurts of Pamoon’s cries of frustration, and the growl of the Water Panther, chilled his spirit. But with every sound emanating from the mist, his resolve grew.
He did his best to let Pamoon know he cared and was with her in spirit, but every time he sent out his spirit wind, his flesh weakened a little more. He knew every ounce of his strength would be critical in the days to come, so he kept his loving gusts brief. As he worked, his mind wandered, as always, back to the time he spent with Pamoon. The story of their brief time together was as vivid as if it had just happened.
After being exiled from the Spirit World over a century ago, he had been summoned to the Spirit Cave by the Creator, Kisemanito. At the time, he thought he was being forgiven for his lapses in judgement many years earlier and would finally be allowed to walk with the ancients in the Spirit World. He soon discovered his disappointment.
Kisemanito had requested his presence because She had a job for him. If he agreed, he was to watch over one whose destiny was far greater than his own. One with the powers of the Yee Naaldlooshii, the skin walker; one who would one day transform and become the Kiche, the Sky Spirit Goddess, if she continued to walk the path the ancients had decried.
His job was simple, or so it seemed, watch over her while she was in the woods which lined the reservation. Keep her safe, but do nothing that would or could change her path. Her free-will must remain intact and her decisions must be hers and hers alone.
Ayas agreed to Kisemanito’s offer hoping it would put him back in her good graces. Hoping it would elevate his status in the Creator’s eyes. Little did he know at that moment that he would fall in love with Pamoon, the one he swore to protect. But he did. His heart belonged to her before his eyes had a chance to blink away her beauty.
The last time he held her was after their final battle with Kanontsistonties, the demonic Flying Head, and its hellish brood. She was unconscious but alive as he delivered her to her family who had feared the worst. Her uncle, the Cree chief, had asked him to stay, but he refused. In Ayas’ mind, he had done the unforgiveable—he had changed Pamoon’s destiny by interfering. The chief tried to tell him that all destinies are changed when two people come in contact, be it as brief as bumping into someone on a side walk or as deep as falling in love. At that time, the chief tried to explain to him how his own life mirrored Ayas’ and how he had found his way back to Kisemanito, but Ayas was too broken, emotionally and physically, to listen.
It would be months before Ayas had the fortitude to call upon Kisemanito in prayer and ask for forgiveness. In a dream, She told him that by thinking of Pamoon’s safety before his own, he had been forgiven of his self-pride and hubris: the reasons he had been banished and forced to live his eternal existence as a wandering spirit. When he asked if he was allowed back in the Spirit World, he was denied. Kisemanito gave him permission to enter the Spirit Cave, the gateway to the Spirit Realm but no further. He acquiesced, bowed, and thanked Her for the mercies he’d been granted. The one thing he wanted most, the ability to walk with Pamoon in the natural world was also denied. He was granted the ability to watch over her, but not to be with her in human form. When he asked why, Kisemanito’s answer was swift. Pamoon was young and had to discover her talents and powers on her own without interference. She was afraid his presence would hinder Pamoon’s development. Kisemanito reminded him that Pamoon was just sixteen years young and that even though he appeared to be just a couple years older, in truth his years were many.
So, here he was, a young brave on a mission. A mission to protect the one he longed for. He wanted nothing more than to feel her embrace, her soft lips on his, and to smell the scent of jasmine which wound through her tresses. But his destiny was his own. A destiny that with time would hopefully intersect with Pamoon’s.
As his axe cut into a bough of the tree, Ayas witnessed the return of the first Golden eagle. The eagles had worked in succession, passing the messages from one to the next, so their wing strength would never tire. Time was critical to their mission.
The eagle landed on a branch near the one Ayas was chopping and whistled its message. Ayas was relieved to hear that Kwanokasha had dispersed the Kowi Anukasha to gather all the tribal Little Peoples. Their presence, magic, and fighting abilities would be vital in fending off and defeating the demons in battle. The message revitalized his aching muscles, his spirit lifted as he began working harder and faster. His efforts were tedious and becoming harder to accomplish due to the decreased visibility as the mist grew thicker.
8
Understanding
“I still don’t understand what happened?” Pamoon said, staring into the flames of the campfire. For the past couple of days, Powaw had tried to explain the effects of the Peyote twice, but Pamoon’s rational mind wouldn’t or couldn’t accept the explanation.
“There is no understanding the effects of peyote,” Powaw said. “There is only acceptance.”
“How am I supposed to accept hallucinations I see when under the effects of a drug?”
“Peyote is not a drug; it’s an herb,” Powaw corrected, “and what you experienced were not hallucinations, but visions. The elders believe that certain herbs used in tandem help to clarify one’s visions.” Powaw hesitated before adding, “Visions of possibilities.”
Pamoon looked up from the fire, scrunched her face, and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to understand Powaw’s words. “So, what I saw wasn’t a premonition of the future, but it was one possible outcome?” She cocked her head to the side, her voice rising at the end of her question.
“Eha,” Powaw nodded.
“How am I supposed to act on something that may or may not be true?”
“You have choices,” Powaw answered. “You can choose to act or you can choose to wait until the visions become clearer. Until the spirit world substantiates or negates the possibilities.”
“But what if my waiting causes harm; harm I might have been able to stop, if I acted?”
“All choices have repercussions. No matter what path you walk, dust will rise.”
Pamoon side-eyed the spirit leader. Riddles, she thought.
As the embers of the fire dimmed, Powaw rose from his seat. “Morning will come fast if we don’t get some sleep.”
Pamoon nodded and slapped the burnt embers from her jeans. She looked up at the moon-lit sky, thought of Ayas, and inhaled deep. “I wish you were here,” she whispered. “You would know what to do.”
Walking back toward her tent, a cool breeze blew from the north carrying the faint scent of birch. Pamoon stopped, allowing the breeze to wrap her in an embrace. She closed her eyes, smiled, and wrapped her arms across her chest, wishing they were his. I miss you, Ayas.
In response, the scent and breeze intensified.
9
Hunger
The wendigo survived for days on the flesh of birds and small animals, but its hunger for human flesh never waned. Weaving through the dense trees, the beast followed a dim light which trickled in from a nearby village. The scent of warm blood accompanied the light. The creature’s footfalls quickened the closer it bounded toward the town—the brighter the light, the thicker the aroma. The wendigo wanted nothing more than to feast on the warm blood of man but instinct warned against doing anything rash.
Reaching the village, the creature stayed in the shadows while traversing through alleys. The wendigo was surprised how little the town had changed in the past hundred years or so since it last feasted within its boundaries. The memory of the fear and taste of the town’s people invigorated the beast, saliva dripping from its lipless mouth. Inching closer to the center of town, the beast grew rabid with excitement until caution was the least of its worries. With each breath, its hunger grew.
Jarrod downed the last of his beer, slowly stood, leaned against the long hickory bar until he no longer felt the room spinning, and headed to the men’s room.
“You gonna make it?” Pierre Gallagher, the bar’s owner and bartender said.
Jarrod waved him off. “You only rent beer, you don’t buy it,” he slurred, wiping the spittle from his lips as he stumbled across the almost empty lounge.
A few minutes later, he shouldered the door open on the way out of the bathroom while fumbling with the zipper of his jeans. “Screw it,” he mumbled. Shuffling toward the bar, he tripped over nothing and used his arms as a counter-weight trying not to fall.
“Time to go,” Pierre said as Jarrod tried to sit back on the stool.
“One for the road?”
“I don’t think so, Jarr. You’ve already had a few too many. I would have cut you off an hour ago, if you were driving.”
Jarrod grunted and heaved himself off the barstool. The sudden motion caused the room to spin, his feet crossing over each other as he tripped sideways across the room. The next thing he knew, his cheek hit the hardwood. Sprawled, face down on the floor, he felt someone grab him by the back of his pants, lifting him up as he tried in vain to regain his balance.
“That’s going to leave a nice bruise and a black eye,” Pierre said as he directed him back to the bar. “Lean against the rail and try not to move while I get some ice.”
“Just give me an icy mug and fill it with a nice dark stout.” Jarrod laughed at his own joke, but it was abbreviated as pain shot through the side of his face. “Damn, that’s sore,” he grunted, moving his jaw side to side.
Pierre handed him a plastic bag full of ice chips. “Here, put this on your cheek for a few minutes while I close up. I’ll help you get home.”
Jarrod lifted his other hand from the bar to wave him away. “I don’t need your damn help.” As soon as his hand left the bar, he once again lost his balance, and slid down the bar. The stool to his left was the only thing that stopped him from striking the floor for a second time. Staggering back to a semi-upright position, he held tight to the bar. “On second thought, I accept your offer.” His slurring amplified with each word.
The cold air slapped Jarrod across the face as soon as they stepped out into the night air. Damn, that feels good, he thought. A couple blocks away from the bar, he felt well enough to walk without assistance. “I can make it home from here.”
“Are you sure? We’re still a few blocks from your home.”
Jarrod pointed to the alley. “I can cut through here and I’m practically at my back door.”
Pierre nodded. “Okay, but ice that cheek when you get home. I don’t want your wife calling mine and complaining that I let your drink too much. Again.”
Jarrod just laughed and waved to his friend as he turned and stumbled into the alley.
The wendigo’s ears pointed skyward and spit dripped from is unfurled tongue as the sound of footsteps neared. With its acute eyesight, the wendigo watched a man stumble into the alley through the blanket of darkness. Pointing its nose in the direction of the human, the creature’s nostrils flared before scrunching at the contrasting odors: the sweet smell of warm blood tainted by the sharp sting of alcohol. The beast shook its head in disgust, but the festering stench of booze would not keep him from feeding.
With a supernatural quickness, the creature lunged, grabbed the man by the leg, and dragged him into the recesses of the alley. The smell of fear wafting off the man’s flesh only heightened the beast’s hunger. The smell of warm urine meshed with the overwhelming odor of alcohol, turned the beast’s stomach. Instead of biting down on the neck of the man, the wendigo threw the man against a dumpster, as if he were a twig and wretched until its stomach emptied.
Angry that he was unable to feast, the starved beast careened from the alley in search of another food source. Tracking a faint odor, it picked up the scent of blood, old blood, non-human blood, but anything was better than nothing. Moments later, the wendigo stood in the back of a butcher shop. The locked door was no trouble as it ripped the steel door from its hinges. Inside, it tore open the walk-in fridge, grabbed the first piece of meat it saw, plunged its teeth into the flesh, and gorged.
In times past, the wendigo would have shunned non-living flesh, but these times were different, and the beast was ravenous. The creature devoured the meat until its hunger abated.
With its anger temporarily quelled, the wendigo headed back towards its home.
A hot, acrid wind blew from the valley changing its plans.
Head down the mountain and away from the lakes. Follow my command, and I promise you a feast greater than you could ever imagine.
The wendigo’s will power was doused by the voice. Nodding at nothing but wind and snow, the monster heeded the command and trekked in a southeasterly direction. The further the beast traveled, the slower it moved. Not from exhaustion or hunger, but from a feeling it had not felt in more than one hundred years—fear. The wendigo didn’t know why it was afraid, but it was. With its head on a swivel, the humanoid made its way toward the Northern Minnesota border.
10
Gathering
Ayamihewiskwew, the Skadegamutc high-priestess, known as Ayam to her followers, floated in silent anticipation as she stared at the eastern horizon waiting for the first flicker of the morning sun. She and her growing cast of ghost-witches had left a trail of destruction as they traversed from northern Maine, through New Hampshire, and made their way to Goat Island, one of a string of small islands scattered on Lake Chaubunagungamaug in Webster, Massachusetts.
Ayam stood in the middle of an abandoned Nipmuc cemetery. The Nipmuc Indians were one of the many Narragansett tribes indigenous to this area. Lake Chaubunagungamaug had been the lifeblood to many of those tribes. Translated, it meant That which is a divided island lake, but the common, local translation was You fish on your side, I'll fish on my side, and nobody fish in the middle. It was this translation that kept peace between the many tribes for many years. That peace and harmony had been broken by the ghost-witches. As it would be again today.
Ayam flew among her sisters, heightening their awareness to what was to come.
Just before dawn, Ayam spoke. “At the precise moment the sun tips its waking face over the lake, we will call forth our sisters who have slept for far too long in their winding sheets. Together, we will head south and claim what is rightfully ours, immortality and the Spirit Mount.”
No answer.
Louder, this time, she said, “Evil is not allowed to flourish in this sacred place.”
Again, there was silence.
“Kise, can you hear me? Are you here?”
Nothing. The Creator did not reply.
About to give up, Pamoon heard a mournful cry. “Hurry, Kiche. Run.”
The anguish of Ayas’ voice shocked her from her trance. Her eyes snapped open, her muscles taunt. Instinct took control of her mind and body as she shot up off the floor of the lodge and ran for the door before Powaw could stop her. Her head spun as soon as she stepped outside. The fresh, cold air of a Florida January seemed to have weight and substance, slamming her to the ground. She felt the incapacitating pain of a brain freeze—as if she’d eaten ice cream too fast—but it wasn’t just in her head, it was also in her gut and muscles. The sudden cramp surged, causing her to empty her stomach and dry heave until the sensation lessened.
Lying on the cold ground, curled in a fetal position, she heard Powaw before she saw him. “Sometimes experience is the best teacher. Next time, you will stay put until the ceremony is over.”
6
Watchers
The next morning started like any other. Pamoon and Scout ran as usual, but as they passed as rock formation, the flame-shaped birthmarks on her hand and neck tingled. She slowed down, her senses keen to anything out of the ordinary, and more importantly, to see if Scout reacted differently to the surrounding area. She wiped the sweat from her palm onto her jeans and gripped her staff tighter, readying to compress the lever under her pinkie to snap it to a full length of five feet. Except for the irritation on her skin, neither she nor Scout seemed to sense anything wrong, and once again, picked up their pace.
Under the rock formation where Pamoon had slowed her run, Mantema and Shikoba hid in the shadows, afraid to even take a breath as the Sky Spirt Goddess stopped just a few feet away. As soon as they heard the footsteps once again quicken, the Choctaw Little People breathed easier. Once their keen sense of smell no longer picked up the perfume of the wolf, they moved out from under the rocks, feeling at ease to speak freely.
“The Godeth thure ith beautiful,” Shikoba, the smaller of the two lisped.
“Her senses are strong, but not yet strong enough to discover our presence,” Mantema said, ignoring his brother’s comment.
“I with we could make ourthelves known to her.”
Mantema just shook his head. “We observe and stay hidden until she finds us or until Kwanokasha arrives.”
“Did The Watcher thay when he would be here?”
“No. Kwanokasha doesn’t make schedules; he just makes decisions.”
“I hope she patheth hith teths.”
“If she is the one the wind whispers of, she will pass his tests.”
7
The Valley’s First Visitors
Today began like the previous few since Ayas had found the valley; he toiled along the Southeast border of the valley, the one which meshed with the Misty Woods. He was high in a pine, chopping and cutting as the sun began to dip. Every once in a while, he swore he heard voices coming from the fog. He knew better than to dismiss them as figments of his imagination, and found it harder to ignore them with each passing day. Through his constant toil, his thoughts of Pamoon kept him from stopping to rest. Her mortality kept him fearful. The anguish he heard coming from the Tree People, the short spurts of Pamoon’s cries of frustration, and the growl of the Water Panther, chilled his spirit. But with every sound emanating from the mist, his resolve grew.
He did his best to let Pamoon know he cared and was with her in spirit, but every time he sent out his spirit wind, his flesh weakened a little more. He knew every ounce of his strength would be critical in the days to come, so he kept his loving gusts brief. As he worked, his mind wandered, as always, back to the time he spent with Pamoon. The story of their brief time together was as vivid as if it had just happened.
After being exiled from the Spirit World over a century ago, he had been summoned to the Spirit Cave by the Creator, Kisemanito. At the time, he thought he was being forgiven for his lapses in judgement many years earlier and would finally be allowed to walk with the ancients in the Spirit World. He soon discovered his disappointment.
Kisemanito had requested his presence because She had a job for him. If he agreed, he was to watch over one whose destiny was far greater than his own. One with the powers of the Yee Naaldlooshii, the skin walker; one who would one day transform and become the Kiche, the Sky Spirit Goddess, if she continued to walk the path the ancients had decried.
His job was simple, or so it seemed, watch over her while she was in the woods which lined the reservation. Keep her safe, but do nothing that would or could change her path. Her free-will must remain intact and her decisions must be hers and hers alone.
Ayas agreed to Kisemanito’s offer hoping it would put him back in her good graces. Hoping it would elevate his status in the Creator’s eyes. Little did he know at that moment that he would fall in love with Pamoon, the one he swore to protect. But he did. His heart belonged to her before his eyes had a chance to blink away her beauty.
The last time he held her was after their final battle with Kanontsistonties, the demonic Flying Head, and its hellish brood. She was unconscious but alive as he delivered her to her family who had feared the worst. Her uncle, the Cree chief, had asked him to stay, but he refused. In Ayas’ mind, he had done the unforgiveable—he had changed Pamoon’s destiny by interfering. The chief tried to tell him that all destinies are changed when two people come in contact, be it as brief as bumping into someone on a side walk or as deep as falling in love. At that time, the chief tried to explain to him how his own life mirrored Ayas’ and how he had found his way back to Kisemanito, but Ayas was too broken, emotionally and physically, to listen.
It would be months before Ayas had the fortitude to call upon Kisemanito in prayer and ask for forgiveness. In a dream, She told him that by thinking of Pamoon’s safety before his own, he had been forgiven of his self-pride and hubris: the reasons he had been banished and forced to live his eternal existence as a wandering spirit. When he asked if he was allowed back in the Spirit World, he was denied. Kisemanito gave him permission to enter the Spirit Cave, the gateway to the Spirit Realm but no further. He acquiesced, bowed, and thanked Her for the mercies he’d been granted. The one thing he wanted most, the ability to walk with Pamoon in the natural world was also denied. He was granted the ability to watch over her, but not to be with her in human form. When he asked why, Kisemanito’s answer was swift. Pamoon was young and had to discover her talents and powers on her own without interference. She was afraid his presence would hinder Pamoon’s development. Kisemanito reminded him that Pamoon was just sixteen years young and that even though he appeared to be just a couple years older, in truth his years were many.
So, here he was, a young brave on a mission. A mission to protect the one he longed for. He wanted nothing more than to feel her embrace, her soft lips on his, and to smell the scent of jasmine which wound through her tresses. But his destiny was his own. A destiny that with time would hopefully intersect with Pamoon’s.
As his axe cut into a bough of the tree, Ayas witnessed the return of the first Golden eagle. The eagles had worked in succession, passing the messages from one to the next, so their wing strength would never tire. Time was critical to their mission.
The eagle landed on a branch near the one Ayas was chopping and whistled its message. Ayas was relieved to hear that Kwanokasha had dispersed the Kowi Anukasha to gather all the tribal Little Peoples. Their presence, magic, and fighting abilities would be vital in fending off and defeating the demons in battle. The message revitalized his aching muscles, his spirit lifted as he began working harder and faster. His efforts were tedious and becoming harder to accomplish due to the decreased visibility as the mist grew thicker.
8
Understanding
“I still don’t understand what happened?” Pamoon said, staring into the flames of the campfire. For the past couple of days, Powaw had tried to explain the effects of the Peyote twice, but Pamoon’s rational mind wouldn’t or couldn’t accept the explanation.
“There is no understanding the effects of peyote,” Powaw said. “There is only acceptance.”
“How am I supposed to accept hallucinations I see when under the effects of a drug?”
“Peyote is not a drug; it’s an herb,” Powaw corrected, “and what you experienced were not hallucinations, but visions. The elders believe that certain herbs used in tandem help to clarify one’s visions.” Powaw hesitated before adding, “Visions of possibilities.”
Pamoon looked up from the fire, scrunched her face, and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to understand Powaw’s words. “So, what I saw wasn’t a premonition of the future, but it was one possible outcome?” She cocked her head to the side, her voice rising at the end of her question.
“Eha,” Powaw nodded.
“How am I supposed to act on something that may or may not be true?”
“You have choices,” Powaw answered. “You can choose to act or you can choose to wait until the visions become clearer. Until the spirit world substantiates or negates the possibilities.”
“But what if my waiting causes harm; harm I might have been able to stop, if I acted?”
“All choices have repercussions. No matter what path you walk, dust will rise.”
Pamoon side-eyed the spirit leader. Riddles, she thought.
As the embers of the fire dimmed, Powaw rose from his seat. “Morning will come fast if we don’t get some sleep.”
Pamoon nodded and slapped the burnt embers from her jeans. She looked up at the moon-lit sky, thought of Ayas, and inhaled deep. “I wish you were here,” she whispered. “You would know what to do.”
Walking back toward her tent, a cool breeze blew from the north carrying the faint scent of birch. Pamoon stopped, allowing the breeze to wrap her in an embrace. She closed her eyes, smiled, and wrapped her arms across her chest, wishing they were his. I miss you, Ayas.
In response, the scent and breeze intensified.
9
Hunger
The wendigo survived for days on the flesh of birds and small animals, but its hunger for human flesh never waned. Weaving through the dense trees, the beast followed a dim light which trickled in from a nearby village. The scent of warm blood accompanied the light. The creature’s footfalls quickened the closer it bounded toward the town—the brighter the light, the thicker the aroma. The wendigo wanted nothing more than to feast on the warm blood of man but instinct warned against doing anything rash.
Reaching the village, the creature stayed in the shadows while traversing through alleys. The wendigo was surprised how little the town had changed in the past hundred years or so since it last feasted within its boundaries. The memory of the fear and taste of the town’s people invigorated the beast, saliva dripping from its lipless mouth. Inching closer to the center of town, the beast grew rabid with excitement until caution was the least of its worries. With each breath, its hunger grew.
Jarrod downed the last of his beer, slowly stood, leaned against the long hickory bar until he no longer felt the room spinning, and headed to the men’s room.
“You gonna make it?” Pierre Gallagher, the bar’s owner and bartender said.
Jarrod waved him off. “You only rent beer, you don’t buy it,” he slurred, wiping the spittle from his lips as he stumbled across the almost empty lounge.
A few minutes later, he shouldered the door open on the way out of the bathroom while fumbling with the zipper of his jeans. “Screw it,” he mumbled. Shuffling toward the bar, he tripped over nothing and used his arms as a counter-weight trying not to fall.
“Time to go,” Pierre said as Jarrod tried to sit back on the stool.
“One for the road?”
“I don’t think so, Jarr. You’ve already had a few too many. I would have cut you off an hour ago, if you were driving.”
Jarrod grunted and heaved himself off the barstool. The sudden motion caused the room to spin, his feet crossing over each other as he tripped sideways across the room. The next thing he knew, his cheek hit the hardwood. Sprawled, face down on the floor, he felt someone grab him by the back of his pants, lifting him up as he tried in vain to regain his balance.
“That’s going to leave a nice bruise and a black eye,” Pierre said as he directed him back to the bar. “Lean against the rail and try not to move while I get some ice.”
“Just give me an icy mug and fill it with a nice dark stout.” Jarrod laughed at his own joke, but it was abbreviated as pain shot through the side of his face. “Damn, that’s sore,” he grunted, moving his jaw side to side.
Pierre handed him a plastic bag full of ice chips. “Here, put this on your cheek for a few minutes while I close up. I’ll help you get home.”
Jarrod lifted his other hand from the bar to wave him away. “I don’t need your damn help.” As soon as his hand left the bar, he once again lost his balance, and slid down the bar. The stool to his left was the only thing that stopped him from striking the floor for a second time. Staggering back to a semi-upright position, he held tight to the bar. “On second thought, I accept your offer.” His slurring amplified with each word.
The cold air slapped Jarrod across the face as soon as they stepped out into the night air. Damn, that feels good, he thought. A couple blocks away from the bar, he felt well enough to walk without assistance. “I can make it home from here.”
“Are you sure? We’re still a few blocks from your home.”
Jarrod pointed to the alley. “I can cut through here and I’m practically at my back door.”
Pierre nodded. “Okay, but ice that cheek when you get home. I don’t want your wife calling mine and complaining that I let your drink too much. Again.”
Jarrod just laughed and waved to his friend as he turned and stumbled into the alley.
The wendigo’s ears pointed skyward and spit dripped from is unfurled tongue as the sound of footsteps neared. With its acute eyesight, the wendigo watched a man stumble into the alley through the blanket of darkness. Pointing its nose in the direction of the human, the creature’s nostrils flared before scrunching at the contrasting odors: the sweet smell of warm blood tainted by the sharp sting of alcohol. The beast shook its head in disgust, but the festering stench of booze would not keep him from feeding.
With a supernatural quickness, the creature lunged, grabbed the man by the leg, and dragged him into the recesses of the alley. The smell of fear wafting off the man’s flesh only heightened the beast’s hunger. The smell of warm urine meshed with the overwhelming odor of alcohol, turned the beast’s stomach. Instead of biting down on the neck of the man, the wendigo threw the man against a dumpster, as if he were a twig and wretched until its stomach emptied.
Angry that he was unable to feast, the starved beast careened from the alley in search of another food source. Tracking a faint odor, it picked up the scent of blood, old blood, non-human blood, but anything was better than nothing. Moments later, the wendigo stood in the back of a butcher shop. The locked door was no trouble as it ripped the steel door from its hinges. Inside, it tore open the walk-in fridge, grabbed the first piece of meat it saw, plunged its teeth into the flesh, and gorged.
In times past, the wendigo would have shunned non-living flesh, but these times were different, and the beast was ravenous. The creature devoured the meat until its hunger abated.
With its anger temporarily quelled, the wendigo headed back towards its home.
A hot, acrid wind blew from the valley changing its plans.
Head down the mountain and away from the lakes. Follow my command, and I promise you a feast greater than you could ever imagine.
The wendigo’s will power was doused by the voice. Nodding at nothing but wind and snow, the monster heeded the command and trekked in a southeasterly direction. The further the beast traveled, the slower it moved. Not from exhaustion or hunger, but from a feeling it had not felt in more than one hundred years—fear. The wendigo didn’t know why it was afraid, but it was. With its head on a swivel, the humanoid made its way toward the Northern Minnesota border.
10
Gathering
Ayamihewiskwew, the Skadegamutc high-priestess, known as Ayam to her followers, floated in silent anticipation as she stared at the eastern horizon waiting for the first flicker of the morning sun. She and her growing cast of ghost-witches had left a trail of destruction as they traversed from northern Maine, through New Hampshire, and made their way to Goat Island, one of a string of small islands scattered on Lake Chaubunagungamaug in Webster, Massachusetts.
Ayam stood in the middle of an abandoned Nipmuc cemetery. The Nipmuc Indians were one of the many Narragansett tribes indigenous to this area. Lake Chaubunagungamaug had been the lifeblood to many of those tribes. Translated, it meant That which is a divided island lake, but the common, local translation was You fish on your side, I'll fish on my side, and nobody fish in the middle. It was this translation that kept peace between the many tribes for many years. That peace and harmony had been broken by the ghost-witches. As it would be again today.
Ayam flew among her sisters, heightening their awareness to what was to come.
Just before dawn, Ayam spoke. “At the precise moment the sun tips its waking face over the lake, we will call forth our sisters who have slept for far too long in their winding sheets. Together, we will head south and claim what is rightfully ours, immortality and the Spirit Mount.”
